Chapter 25 Alina
ALINA
The gun weighs a thousand pounds in my hand.
I stare down at my father's body, at the three dark holes in his chest that mirror the wounds that killed Sergei. Blood spreads across the concrete floor in a widening pool, creeping toward my feet. I should step back. Should move. Should feel something.
But there's nothing. Just a vast, echoing emptiness where my heart used to be.
"Alina." Dimitri's voice comes from somewhere far away, even though he's standing right beside me. "Give me the gun."
I look down at the weapon in my hands like I've never seen it before. My fingers are locked around the grip, knuckles white, and I can't seem to make them release, can't seem to make any part of my body respond to commands.
Dimitri's hand covers mine, warm and solid. Gently, so gently, he pries my fingers loose and takes the gun. The absence of its weight should be a relief, but I feel nothing. Just that terrible, yawning emptiness.
"Come on." His arm wraps around my waist, supporting me as my legs threaten to give out. "We need to go."
He guides me away from the body. Away from the man who was supposed to protect me, who was supposed to love me, who instead sold me and killed my sister and tried to destroy everything I cared about.
My feet move automatically, one in front of the other, but I'm not really walking.
I'm floating, disconnected from my body, watching all of this happen to someone else.
The corridor opens into the main factory floor, and the scene that greets us looks like something from a war zone.
Bodies lie scattered across the concrete.
Dimitri's men move efficiently through the space, checking the fallen, securing weapons, coordinating cleanup.
The air smells like gunpowder and copper and death.
"Pakhan." Alexei limps toward us, his face pale but his eyes sharp.
There's blood on his shoulder, fresh crimson seeping through a hastily applied bandage, but he's alive.
He's moving. "Building is secure. We have three prisoners for interrogation.
The rest…" He gestures at the bodies. "Minimal casualties on our side.
Borge took a bullet to the leg, but he'll live. "
Dimitri nods, his arm still tight around my waist. "Get the wounded to the doctor. Have the cleanup crew standing by. I want this place sanitized within the hour."
"Already on it." Alexei's gaze shifts to me, and I see something flicker in his expression. Concern, maybe. Or pity. "Is she…?"
"She's fine." Dimitri's voice is firm, brooking no argument. "She's in shock, but she's fine."
Am I? I don't feel fine. I don't feel anything at all.
We walk through the carnage, past men I recognize from the wedding, from the estate. They nod respectfully to Dimitri, their eyes sliding away from me. Do they know what I did? Can they see my father's blood on my hands, even though Dimitri took the gun?
The cool night air hits my face as we step outside, and I suck in a breath. The factory sits in an industrial area, surrounded by other abandoned buildings and empty lots. Dimitri's SUVs are parked in a semicircle, engines running, ready for a quick escape.
"Wait." My voice sounds strange, hollow. "Katya. I need to see Katya."
Dimitri stops, his hand tightening on my waist. "Alina…"
"I need to see my sister." The words come out stronger now, cutting through the fog. "I need to say goodbye. Please."
He studies my face for a long moment, and I see the war playing out behind his green eyes. The Pakhan who needs to move fast, to get me to safety, to handle the political fallout. And the man who just watched me kill my own father, who knows what I'm feeling even if I can't feel it myself.
The man wins.
"Alexei," he calls out. "Send a team to the Popov compound. Find Katya's body and bring it to the estate. Handle it with respect."
"Yes, Pakhan."
Dimitri helps me into the back of his SUV, sliding in beside me. The leather seats are cool against my skin, and I realize I'm shaking. Not from cold, but from something deeper. Something that's trying to claw its way to the surface through all that numbness.
The drive back to the estate passes in a blur. Dimitri makes calls, his voice low and controlled as he coordinates with his network. I catch fragments of conversation. Viktor Popov is dead. The alliance with the Kozlovs is broken. The other families are scrambling. War might be coming.
I should care about that. Should be worried about what happens next. But all I can think about is Katya. My baby sister. Sixteen years old with her whole life ahead of her. Dead because of me. Because I defied our father. Because I married Dimitri instead of staying where I belonged.
"Stop." Dimitri's hand covers mine, and I realize I've been digging my nails into my palms hard enough to draw blood. "This isn't your fault."
"Isn't it?" My voice cracks. "If I hadn't married you, if I'd just done what he wanted…"
"Then you'd be dead too." His fingers thread through mine, holding tight.
"Viktor was always going to sacrifice you, Alina.
The moment you became inconvenient, the moment you threatened his plans, you were expendable.
Just like Katya. Just like your mother would have been if she'd ever stood up to him. "
I know he's right. Logically, I know. But logic doesn't touch the guilt that's starting to seep through the numbness like poison.
The estate gates swing open, and we drive through into the familiar grounds. Home. Except it doesn't feel like home right now. It feels like another prison, another place where bad things happen.
Dimitri leads me inside, past his men who are already taking up defensive positions. The house is on high alert, every entrance guarded, every window monitored. Preparing for retaliation that might never come.
He takes me to his study instead of our bedroom. The room smells like leather and expensive vodka, masculine and safe. He pours me a drink, pressing the glass into my hands.
"Drink."
I obey automatically, the vodka burning down my throat. It doesn't help. Nothing helps.
Hours pass. I sit in the leather chair by the window while Dimitri works, making calls, receiving reports, coordinating the response to Viktor's death.
The other Bratva families are in chaos. Some are celebrating, seeing Viktor's death as an opportunity.
Others are calling for blood, claiming Dimitri orchestrated everything.
A few are staying neutral, waiting to see which way the wind blows.
I should be listening. Should be paying attention to the politics that will shape our future. But I can't focus on anything except the clock on the wall, watching the minutes tick by. Waiting for news about Katya.
The sun is starting to rise when Alexei finally appears in the doorway. His shoulder is properly bandaged now, his face less pale. But the expression he wears makes my stomach clench.
"We searched the entire compound," he says quietly. "Every room, every building, every inch of the property."
"And?" Dimitri's voice is sharp.
"There's no body, Pakhan." Alexei's eyes meet mine. "We found evidence of violence in one of the bedrooms. Blood, signs of a struggle. But no body. Katya isn't there."
The words don't make sense. I heard my father. Heard him tell me he killed her. Heard the satisfaction in his voice as he described how she cried for me.
Dimitri dismisses Alexei and kneels in front of my chair, taking both my hands in his. The eight-pointed star tattoo on his chest is visible through his partially unbuttoned shirt, a reminder of who and what he is. A man who's survived everything this world has thrown at him.
"We'll find her," he says, and it's not a promise. It's a vow. "Whatever it takes, however long it takes, we'll find your sister."
I want to believe him. But I've learned the hard way that hope is dangerous in this world.
His thumbs brush across my knuckles. "You need to rest. You've been through hell, and your body needs sleep."
"I can't sleep. Not until I know…"
"Alina, let me handle this. Let my men do their jobs. You need to take care of yourself."
He's right, and I hate that he's right. My body is screaming for rest, my mind foggy with exhaustion and shock.
A knock at the door interrupts my spiral. One of Dimitri's tech specialists enters, carrying a tablet. His face is carefully neutral, but I see the tension in his shoulders.
"Pakhan. We pulled traffic camera footage from the area around the Popov compound. You need to see this."
Dimitri takes the tablet, and I move to stand beside him, looking over his shoulder at the screen. The footage is grainy, black and white, timestamped from early this morning. It shows a residential street I recognize as being near my father's house.
A black sedan pulls up to the curb. Three men get out, and even through the poor quality footage, I can see the tattoos on their necks. Bratva markings. But not Popov colors.
Kozlov colors.
My breath catches as a fourth figure is dragged from a house. Small, struggling, dark hair whipping around as she fights. Even without seeing her face clearly, I know.
Katya.
They force her into the car, one man's hand clamped over her mouth to muffle her screams. The sedan pulls away, disappearing down the street.
"The Kozlovs have her." Dimitri's voice is cold, controlled, but I hear the rage underneath. "Viktor must have sold her to them. Insurance, in case his meeting with you went wrong."
I stare at the screen, at the frozen image of my sister being taken. She's alive. Katya is alive. The relief is so intense it makes my knees weak, but it's immediately followed by terror.
The Kozlov family. The same people who orchestrated the church attack. The same people who wanted me dead. Now they have my sixteen-year-old sister.
"We have to get her back." I turn to Dimitri, grabbing his shirt. "Right now. We have to…"
"We will." His hands cover mine, steadying me. "But we need to be smart about this. The Kozlovs will be expecting us to come for her. They'll use her as bait, try to draw us into a trap."
"I don't care." The words come out fierce, final. "She's my sister. She's all I have left. I don't care what it takes, what it costs. We're getting her back."
Dimitri studies my face, and I see the moment he makes his decision. The moment he chooses me, chooses us, over strategy and caution.
"Then we get her back," he says simply. "Whatever it takes."